Ad Nauseam
by Esse
Summary: iv: esto perpetua: Behold! from the depths she calls, from the depths she beseeches — collect and postage due
1. to the loser no nookie

_**Disclaimer:** What you are about to read is an accurate account of the events that occurred while Esse played her cherished copy of FFVII. Your experiences may have differed. If so, she feels sorry for you; you must've fought through the run-'o-the-mill, generic, sanitized-for-your-protection encounter. Esse owns not FFVII -- just the aforementioned cherished copy. Money Esse makes not -- period. End of discussion._

_**Warnings:** A few iffy words? Extremely sad, strained humor? A Sephiroth that's OOC to everyone but Esse?_

_**Notes:** Repeat after me: It's all in good fun. Yeah, that's right. Hey, at least I entertained myself for a few hours._

Ad Nauseam

_Estuans interius  
Ira vehementi  
Estuans interius  
Ira vehementi  
Sephiroth  
Sephiroth_

And he knew he was great, the greatest, worthy of god-hood, for he had his choir, and they were glorifying his name. Or something close to his name, as the last echo of, "Sephiros!" bounced around the cloudy confines of nowhere; but the choir'd had little chance to practice, because airfare to the northern crater was hideously expensive, so he was willing to forgive them. After all, they'd likewise butchered the flower girl's name.

Aerith, with the help of the life-stream law offices of Figaro & Figaro, was considering turning the multitude of suites against the choir into one nifty, easily managed class action. He'd already signed the forms she'd sent -- postage due, but then, a dead flower girl could scarcely be expected to have the funds to mail documents from the hereafter. Houdini had been struggling with the problem for years.

Yes. He was great, and god-like, and bought postage stamps with pretty pink hearts and the universally accepted message of "Love" emblazoned across them.

Jenova refused to use the stamps, preferring ordering her minions about by mind control. Her loss. Then again, being a disembodied head could explain her less-than-stellar penmanship. Not that it mattered -- not since Cloud had julienned her. Jenova had her work cut out for her, putting back together the thousand of matchstick sized pieces she was currently scattered about in. She had a long, long time in which to organize her next Reunion. And hopefully, next time around, she'd mail her invitations with darling "Love" stamps.

_Estuans interius  
Ira vehementi  
Estuans interius  
Ira vehementi  
Sephiroth  
Sephiroth_

Hadn't the choir already sang that? Nevermind. He was Sephiroth, and he was the center of the universe, and he would destroy Cloud and his playmates. Or, well, maybe not destroy. But he definitely wasn't bringing out the good china. After all, they'd just hacked his dear mother into Malbor bait. Not that he hadn't engaged in mother-mutilation himself upon occasion -- her disembodied head testified to that, quite loudly, and most frequently during the holidays, when she felt her son wasn't living up to his filial duties of enslaving mankind, destroying the world, and unclogging the shower drain stuffed full of his long, prematurely grey hair.

He was great, and he was the epitome of dastardly sexiness, and he was a bit miffed that Cloud wasn't challenging him. Instead, he was confronted by the little ninja, the stuffed mog/cat, and the big, red dog/cat.

"Give me a break," he muttered, flapping his one wing in a vaguely rude, decidedly fowl gesture. "Where's my puppet? This is so not fair. Where's the challenge? The titanic battle between good and -- me? This can't possibly be right…"

"You're telling me?" The little girl pouted, and plopped down on the ground, and pouted a bit more. "I'm the great ninja Yuffie. I'm supposed to steal your gil, not give it away." She continued pouting, and scratched at the back of her left hand, and searched her pockets until she found her coin purse. "This is so stupid."

"I'm glad you -- hey!" Sephiroth floated a few feet back, and rubbed stinging tentacles together. Several hundred gil now lay strewn about him. "That hurt! What do you think -- Oww! Stop that. I'm trying to be evil and ominous and OUCH! Stop pelting me with gold!"

The big, red dog/cat shook his head sadly. "We know we can not defeat you in battle, so we must Coin Toss you to death instead."

The stuffed mog grunted, while the cat on top cheered, and leered, and threw gil with frightening accuracy. "It's how Shinra's always solved its problems in the past. If you can't beat them, bribe them."

He was great, and he was nearly divine, but he was also now buried under a pile of loot. The singing of his choir faded, and he could hear his assailants prancing away, and discussing tax breaks under the current Midgar code.

"Well, that certainly didn't go as planned…"

_Sors immanis  
Et inanis  
Sors immanis  
Et inanis_

He rubbed at blurry eyes. The situation seemed familiar. His choir heartily provided ambiance, while he floated in misty nothing, and waited for his adversaries to appear. Jenova was minced, diced, and canned in tins of kitty chow. The soufflé was rising in the oven. And Cloud and company were striding forward -- well, the others were striding forward. Cloud was mosey-ing.

He thought he should say something impressive. Should recite his manifesto -- impressively. But he was a bit off his game, and was afraid of speaking in too loud of a voice, 'lest his soufflé should fall. So, instead, he raised a barrier around himself, and thought smugly, "Hah! That'll keep the coins out!"

And he waited. And he waited, while Cloud and company did various and sundry tasks, not limited to an inventory of their supplies, and the wiping of dragon zombie bits off their shoes, and the styling of hair until it was just so-so -- and Sephiroth was surprised that it took Vincent the longest to arrange his tresses in cute crimson bows, though Tifa was nearly as meticulous in the braiding of her corn rows. And Cloud, while not competing in the styling competition, took an inordinate amount of time buffing his nails.

Finally, he gave a small cough, and said, "Excuse me? Are we fighting to the death, or what?"

Vincent, ever elegant, inclined his bow-bedecked head. "By all means, go ahead."

So, soufflé be damned, he Super Nova'd the lot of them. And Cloud managed to dodge -- somehow -- while seated on his rump and painting his toenails a complimentary shade of azure. But Tifa and Vincent, they weren't as lucky. And Sephiroth gloated. And laughed maniacally. Then pouted a pout that put Yuffie's best pout to shame as Tifa slowly stood. And performed her Final Attack.

As the last knight faded, Sephiroth assessed the damage to his glorious person. He'd lost a few feathers. Split a few tentacles. Not so bad, considering that Tifa was laid out flatter than his soufflé…

But she wasn't. She was standing, and casting Life 2 on herself, and Vincent was standing as well, and preparing to cast…

"No, no! This is so not fair!" The knights returned, and Sephiroth thought, briefly, in between wallops, that maybe it would have been wiser to have been Janitor of the Shinra army, instead of General. They both wore the same uniform.

Cloud looked up from the direly important task of his pedicure. "You think this is unfair? You should see them cheat at poker."

_Estuans interius  
Ira vehementi  
Estuans interius  
Ira vehementi  
Sephiroth  
Sephiroth_

He was going to take Masamune, float on over, and start decapitating the members of his choir. Or arm them with sniper rifles -- let them take out Cloud's cronies. While he pulled Cloud aside, and explained proper puppetly behavior to the blonde nitwit.

The members of Avalanche were off his Secret Santa list. And they could forget about Valentine's cards as well. With or without "Love" stamps.

Except he'd already ordered flowers, and bought boxes of chocolate shaped as hearts, and there really wasn't any other use for tin-foil doilies, diabolical or not. And Cloud had been such a good little minion in the past… So maybe his puppet would still get a gift or three. Along with the law offices of Figaro & Figaro, who'd managed to win him quite a handsome settlement from the infernal Squix corporation; the lawyers were getting a lovely fruit basket, as was the flower girl. He could afford the postage; he still had plenty of gil left over from his first ignominious defeat.

_Veni, veni, venias  
Ne me mori facias  
Veni, veni, venias  
Ne me mori facias_

He knew better than to attack the big guy with the machine gun grafted on to his arm, the same as he wasn't going to lay a tentacle on the old geezer puffing away on a crumpled cigarette. He figured they were booby-trapped, much as the longhaired wonder-twins had been.

No. This time he was going after Cloud. Because Cloud spent all his gil on mortgage payments for his villa, and Cloud was constantly getting his materia stolen by the little ninja girl, and Cloud wasn't paying him the slightest bit of attention, but was instead sneaking over to the choir, and humming the chorus to Sephiroth's theme.

_Veni, veni, venias  
Ne me mori facias  
Veni, veni, venias  
Ne me mori facias_

Sephiroth was great, and he was starting to get pissed off at constantly being ignored, and he floated after Cloud and bitch-slapped him with one of his lesser tentacles.

"Ooh." Cloud rubbed his reddened cheek, and his glowing, mako-blue eyes grew brighter with unshed tears, and his lower lip trembled. "Why do you always pick on me? Huh? It's always -- Cloud, bring me the black materia. Cloud, bring me an ice-cold lemonade. Cloud, bring me the remote control. Well, what have you done for me? You slap me, that's what! And I've had enough. No more Mr. Nice Puppet!"

Cloud unleashed his limit break. And Sephiroth bore it stoically -- besides a few whimpers over his feathers being ruffled. It was an awesome limit break. It was a damaging limit break. But in the end, it wasn't enough.

Smirking, Sephiroth slapped Cloud again, then dared the other two to do anything about it.

Barret shrugged. "Yo, man. You do your thing, I'll do mine. If we were playing Uno, I'd be using my Skip card now."

Cid flicked ashes across the misty white nothingness, and shrugged as well. "I'm on break. Looks like it's your turn again, Cloud."

Sephiroth -- had a bad feeling. And it had very little to do with his unpaid property taxes, and much to do with Cloud Strife, who was rubbing furiously at wet eyes, and firming trembling lips, and, perhaps worst of all, mimicking his last attack.

The little ninja had left her intrepid leader with materia, after all.

Cid flicked more ashes. "Sucks to be you."

_Veni, veni, venias (Gloriosa)  
Ne me mori facias (Generosa)  
Veni, veni, venias (Gloriosa)  
Ne me mori facias (Generosa)_

He was going to strangle the frickin' choir with his hair. Or replace their hymnals with last year's Wutaian fishing regulations. They were jinxing him.

Cloud was there, as were the rest of the stalwart troupe. They were seated in a circle, and the stuffed mog had just raised its hand, while the cat had shrilled, "Let's play telephone."

He was great, and he was omnipotent -- if only the rest of the world would realize it -- and he would smite them for their insolence! Smite, and ravage, and he would serve tea without any cream! Except for Cloud, for while Sephiroth was great, and omnipotent, he didn't think he could handle the teary eyes and trembling lips of his puppet ever, ever again. It was in his best interests to keep his failed clone as happy as possible.

For Cloud, he'd even bake scones.

But first, the smiting! And he'd get right to it, as soon as he could figure out what was keeping him from divine retribution. Because, while he certainly had the will to smite, the actual smiting seemed a bit beyond him.

The big, red dog/cat wagged his flame-tipped tail, and beckoned him closer. "Looks like we're in for a bit of a wait."

"Yeah." Yuffie had pulled a wire clothes hanger from -- somewhere -- and was currently straightening it. "Some doofus paused us. So, we figured, we don't ever get t' just sit around and talk anymore, ya know?" With a flick of her wrist, she started a small fire in the center of the circle. "Did anyone bring marshmallows?"

He was great, and he was the sexiest maniac to ever attempt world domination -- even if he was a bit mutated at the moment -- and he floated next to his arch-nemeses -- the straps of Tifa's suspenders, which had much more than just the weight of the world to bear -- and he ate s'mores, and pondered on the peculiarities of existence.

He had a feeling he wasn't going to win this battle. Nor the next one. Nor the one after that. In fact, it seemed that he had the rest of eternity to look forward to being stymied in increasingly embarrassing ways.

But for now, he would settle for reminiscing over past eviscerations, and maybe his good china would see use after all. And Cid had a mop that he was more than willing to lend, and it was about time the hazy whiteness got a good cleaning. The mists were starting to look a bit dingy around the edges. And maybe the flower girl could mail herself from the afterlife and join them -- he was more than willing to cover her postage, what with all the left-over "Love" stamps he had laying around.

_Veni, veni, venias (Gloriosa)  
Ne me mori facias (Generosa)  
Veni, veni, venias (Gloriosa)  
Ne me mori facias (Generosa)  
Sephiroth_

"When the fuck are they going to shut up?" Barret aimed a few rounds in the choir's direction.

Sephiroth was great, and he smiled a chilling, manic smile. "It seems we have a common enemy." Besides, Cloud had started humming along again, and he would've hated to have to reprimand his puppet. And it had been ages since he'd last gotten the chance to impale anyone.

_Estuans interius  
Ira vehementi  
Estuans interius  
Ira vehementi  
Sephiroth  
Sephir -- **urk!**_


	2. everyone's a critic

_**Disclaimer:** Been here, done this, have the lawsuit to prove it. Esse, well, she's still broke, and she's already offered up her soul on the alter of the temple inside the little girls' room at the headquarters/secret lair of Square Enix._

_**Warnings:** Extreme violence, or comic mischief. Take your pick._

_**Notes:** Idiotic short transitional piece. I'm so gonna regret this. Translations provided at the end, courtesy of the Uematsu PR department, Gold Saucer office, and the Ormus Preservation Society, last known whereabouts -- somewhere on Miltia._

Ad Nauseam  
fortune favors those with weapons

"Ne me mori facias!"

A few artistic swipes with Masamune, then Cloud was in front of him, morphing the babbling singer.

He was Sephiroth, and he was a greatly renowned collector of things both rare and bizarre, but even he didn't know what he was going to do with yet another 1/35 Choir Boy. He supposed he could add it to his 1/35 Soldier collection -- he was still missing two out of the twelve, and really, what were his chances of completing the set while trapped within the confines of the Northern Crater? Of course, he could always order his puppet to bring him the figurines, mint in box, but with his luck, he'd probably wind up with yet another Jim: Soldier 3rd Class, and not the rare, beyond-desirable Zack: Soldier 1st Class. Yet he was great, and mostly all-knowing, and being such, he knew that it never hurt to try.

"Cloud! Bring me…" He trailed to an uncertain stop, as mako-enhanced eyes glared in his general direction. And he knew that making silly demands while in the midst of massacring his choir showed a certain lack of focus on his part, but -- being almost all-knowing -- he knew that if he didn't mention it now, he might not remember later. And he really, _really_ wanted the full set; Scarlet would turn green with envy.

"Yes?" Cloud had stopped mid-Omnislash, and was leaning casually against his Nail Bat, flicking bits of unlamented baritone from his pants. "Something you were wanting? A hot mug of cocoa? A plate of Tupon-shaped sugar cookies fresh from the oven? 'Cause, I'm a little busy with the latest task you've set me, but just as soon as I'm done slaying your choir, I'll get **right** to it."

He really shouldn't've had to put up with lippy clones, but he supposed there was a reason Cloud was a failed clone, and not a black-cloaked, Reunion-muttering, hunched over, Jenova-skewered clone slowly freezing on the outside rim of the Crater. And in a few minutes, as soon as Cloud lowered his rudely displayed finger, he'd remember why he liked his puppet just the way he was.

"Ne me mori facias!"

Yet another singer was down, and pleading, and Yuffie stood over him with her pout firmly fixed into place.

"What kind of enemy skill is that? Beg For Life. Puh-lease." She bounced her Superball off the weeping tenor's forehead. "C'mon, cast something ultra-powerful at me. With lots of particle effects. Those are way cool." The Superball ricocheted, and struck Nanaki in the shoulder, causing the big, red dog/cat to yelp. "Oops. Sorry Red."

"I expect this kind of behavior from Cloud." Nanaki flopped down, and began gnawing on the Superball. "And before you ask," he twitched his tail, accidentally setting fire to a fleeing alto's robe, "I don't fetch."

Sephiroth was great -- and just in case anyone might have forgotten -- he was also mostly all-knowing, but that wasn't enough to stop him from intoning dolefully, "Obviously, neither does Cloud. Hojo must not have believed in obedience training."

Vincent blinked, and pursed his lips, then blinked again. "You have a point." He aimed his cute, zoink-ing Silver Rifle at Yuffie's opponent, who was now displaying the somewhat useless enemy skill of Piddling in One's Pants. "He was a scientist. He was far more concerned that his lab specimens displayed a marked preference for chocolate pudding over tapioca."

Cloud, peeved, revenge-minded, and busily trying to pull out a tuft of Sephiroth's hair, gave a sharp laugh. "_That's_ what he was going on about? You mean he never realized…?" He started giggling, and gave the silvery lock he was clenching a softer tug. "…Never realized it was Jenova that had the chocolate addiction?"

Sephiroth was great, but he wasn't particularly known for having patience with underlings, and if he didn't do something soon, his puppet was going to pluck him bald. "You're a lousy minion. I'm telling Mother on you! That is, as soon as she rubber band's herself back together." Really, he'd been giving his puppet far too much leeway; from now on, Cloud could darn his own socks. Well, unless Cloud went away on a mission to retrieve the coveted Zack action figure; then, Sephiroth would be more than happy to knit him new slippers.

An all-knowing, semi-divine villain had to keep himself busy, after all. And it had been ages since he'd last invited the knitting club over. Maybe he'd have Cloud bake those sugar cookies; the sweet old dead Cetra grannies just adored Cloud's cookies. And they needed some enticement to make the long journey from the hereafter and eternal rest to his own rather windy and cold cavern of ill repute.

The tenor huddled by Yuffie's and Vincent's footsies, perceiving an ever-so-slight decrease in hostilities, yammered, "Miserere, O Dominae, miserere nobis!"

Before Yuffie could retrieve her slobbery Superball, Vincent had changed into Chaos. He didn't bother with any of his creepy special attacks; instead, he bounced in righteous fury on the tenor's prone body, screaming obscenities, obscure trig equations, predictions for the next day's chocobo races, and the repeated claim, "I'm a man! A man!"

Sephiroth wasn't inclined to disagree, although he did allow himself a few moments of idle speculation while batting at Cloud's hands with various tentacles, because while he was almost all-knowing, not even he knew what all Hojo might have done to his test subjects. The overly methodical pervert had, according to the Shinra secretarial pool, a penchant for performing rather peculiar experiments upon the bishounen he had captured.

The surviving members of the choir shrieked at the emergence of Chaos.

"Ne me mori facias!"

Cid whacked away with his mop, splattering murky water against the hazy nothingness.

"Ne me mori facias!"

Tifa slapped the diva across the face with her Work Glove, while Cait Sith bopped the now whimpering singer over the head with his Trumpet Shell.

"Quos deus vult perdere prius dementat."

Barret, who'd been milliseconds away from blowing the man into itty-bitty itty-bits, lowered his arm, and scratched his head in befuddled puzzlement. "What was that?"

"That," Cloud said, walking forward with a fistful of long, prematurely grey hair, "was a warning that Seph's been a naughty megalomaniac."

"Tattler." Sephiroth was great, and a master manipulator -- of his cherished puppet, if very little else -- but the jig was up, and his fun was over with for now, if not forever. And not even he could guess at what would come next, because he was almost all-knowing, but not _quite_. "I guess you'll be wanting this back…"

"Hey! That's my Manipulate materia!" Tifa snatched it out of his outstretched hand, and pushed it back into the free slot of her precious watch. "No wonder Cloud hasn't been in the mood lately." She glanced slyly at the various shocked teammates surrounding her. "What? You didn't think the night outside the Highwind was his idea, did you?"

Sephiroth was great, and he was gorgeous even if he was missing a patch of hair from the back of his head, and he was going to get revenge against the brazen barmaid for besmirching his precious if sometimes precocious puppet. But at the moment, there were more urgent things to worry about.

"So, now what?" He swept his wing wide, encompassing the scattered, gory remains of his choir.

Cid snubbed out his cigarette, lit another, equally bent one from the cheery flame at the tip of Nanaki's tail, and took a long, considering drag. "Guess it's a good thing I carry around a mop."

---

__

Translations for the OST impaired:

_Ne me mori facias:  
_Do not let me die  
-- _One Winged Angel -- FFVII -- duh_

_Miserere  
__O Dominae, miserere nobis:  
_Have mercy  
O Lady, have mercy on us  
_-- Ormus -- Xenosaga -- hah!_

_Quos deus vult perdere prius dementat:  
_Those whom a god wishes to destroy he first drives mad  
-- _Just a nice Latin cliché -- bwahaha!_


	3. final attack: Endust

_**Disclaimer:** Copy, paste, repeat. No harm, no foul. It takes one to know one. Wise man say, suing Esse leads to frustration and the ingestion of ineffective heartburn medication. No deposit, no return._

_**Warnings:** Vulgarity -- but, that one _really_ bad word for the PG-13 rating, that's per chapter, right? Yeah, same as with a TV series. I'm so going with that. More vulgarity, of the "Oh my gosh, I don't believe I wrote that, there's a special place set aside in purgatory for me" kind. And humorless attempts at humor. Leave now, or forever hold your flames._

_**Notes:** This really is too much fun. No keeping track of plot. No trying to be eloquent. Just me spouting vitriol, and feeling so much better for it._

_**Thanks:** For letting me play in your sandbox. I can't believe no bullies have come and kicked sand in my face. Yet… For those that've reviewed: You make me so happy! Although you're being far too kind; heehee, even I know this's crap. But much like drug use, as long as I'm gettin' my kicks, I ain't gonna stop._

**Ad Nauseam**  
avalanche cleaning service to the rescue

"That's the last of it." Cait Sith pushed the squishy mound off the edge, letting it fall into the bright abyss. "Not fair, though, making me do all the clean up. Just because I'm a stuffed toy," the cat knuckled its eyes sadly, and gave a hiccupping sob, "doesn't mean I don't have feelings too, ya know."

"It's because you're a toy, and Reeve's sitting safe back in Midgar, that you get to do the dirty work." Sephiroth was cranky, for it was long past the time all good little murdering Generals should have been in bed, and while Sephiroth was preternaturally hunky, he still needed his beauty sleep; five years incased in materia hadn't been nearly enough.

His cavern was clean, if not pristine; with the help of Cid's mop, they'd managed to scrub away the worst of the choir tatters and spatterings. And while he relished the quiet, if he had it to do over again, he might have spared the group, if only to save himself the trouble of cleansing his domicile afterwards. But a brief glance at the three survivors, huddled together in the distance and occasionally meeping "vehementi", convinced him the bit of unrestrained mayhem had been worth the cost.

He was tempted to finish off the remaining singers -- but he was dreadfully tired, and besides, they'd run out of Mr. Clean, and he'd never been able to stand the stench of Pine-Sol -- not even the lemon variety, though personally he was rather fond of lemons.

"Yeah, Cait," Yuffie said, trying to scrape the gunk out from underneath her fingernails with a moist towelette she'd liberated from the Turtle's Paradise Inn -- or so the logo on the package accused. "It's icky enough, just the smell around here. I'd say you're the luckiest of us all. And _that's_ what's not fair. Tell us: If a Cait Sith falls in battle, does Reeve make a noise?"

"Only if there's a Turk around to hear it," Vincent replied glumly, his gaze fixed in pained disbelief on the chartreuse feather duster clenched numbly in his claw. "Wish **I** were around to hear it. Even my coffin was better than -- whatever here is." He risked a quick look up, red eyes narrowed against the painful glare. "Doesn't it ever get dark?"

"It's Holy," Cloud said, beaming beatifically and twirling grandly, a perfectly angelic expression plastered across his face. "Holy is shining. Aerith's wish is --"

"No." Sephiroth hated interrupting his puppet, but he hated hearing his puppet soliloquize lovingly over the gone but unfortunately not even close to being forgotten flower girl more.

Cloud stilled, and lowered his arms. "No?"

"No. It's all dry ice, and halogen lamps." He rubbed at a sticky, suspicious spot sullying an otherwise snowy pinion. "There was supposed to be more, actually; background of some sort or another, but you know how it is. There were budgeting errors, and they were running short on time; cutbacks had to be made in favor of the grand finale… Do you think I win, by the way? Meteor crashes into the planet, I become one with the Lifestream, bow down before me, for I _am_ your god; oh, I do so hope I'm victorious. You're all welcome to the hootenanny afterwards."

He'd been planning the party for years, and had been practicing making pigs-in-a-blanket for the past week, for while he was adept at a variety of menial tasks, his culinary skills had grown a tad rusty during his sojourn in the Crater. Jenova had promised to bring the relish trays, and he experienced a moment of panic when he realized that Mother was in no shape to produce them. But he was great, and he was thrifty, and with relief he decided that he'd just tell his puppet to make the deviled eggs and veggie trays.

It was pleasant having a minion. Even when said minion was frowning, and glancing from the hazy whiteness that was masquerading as a background, to him, then back to the hazy whiteness, and crossing his arms, and looking ready to settle in for a good, long sulk.

"You don't win, Seph. You're the bad guy. The bad guys never win. It says so in the Heroing for the Complete Klutz handbook." Cloud rummaged through his pockets, pulling out a sheet of tin-foil stars, a handful of pocket tissues, and his Sector 6 key -- everything but the chocolate bar he was looking for. "Umm, with the exception of the first Dragon Quest. You know, when the main baddie asks you to join him, and you say yes, and the whole screen goes red and dark and all the work you put into the last dungeon is gone…" He blinked winsomely at Nanaki, who was staring at him curiously. "What? Don't tell me you never tried it."

"…In case you haven't noticed, I don't have opposable thumbs," the big, red dog/cat mumbled. "It makes playing video games somewhat problematic."

"Besides," Tifa walked over, Windex bottle in hand, and helped Sephiroth preen his ruffled feathers, "none of this really matters now, does it? We've been paused for so long…" She swiped at the smudge with a damp paper towel. "After defeating you so many times -- don't tell me you're looking forward to the next battle."

"Why shouldn't I be?" He was happy that his wing was once again sparkly, and he could be magnanimous towards the barmaid for her help while he had every intention of smacking her flat in the near future for her unauthorized use of _his_ puppet, but he absolutely refused to stand -- float -- whatever -- for her patronizing. "I've not yet begun to fight! Besides," he flapped his wing, pushing Tifa to the side, "how many dirty tricks could you possibly have left?"

Barret grimaced, and pulled the Disinfectant from their inventory; once the cap was off, he began spraying it about indiscriminately. "Well, we were thinkin' of turning ourselves into frogs, and then, just, you know, hopping you to death."

"Frogs." He couldn't wrap his brain around the concept. "…Frogs. You were going -- to yourselves -- then…" The idea was so horrific that the suckers lining his tentacles closed to tight buds. "You are aware that frogs only do 1 damage?"

"I can do 2," Cloud gloated, then coughed as the heavy cloud of scented mist descended. "It's not like we don't have the time; in a few months we'd have you worn down. But then Red suggested that maybe we should all just keep casting Chocobuckle."

Nanaki, sneezing uncontrollably, did his best to wipe at his watering eye, the tender membranes stinging from the harsh chemicals in the Disinfectant -- misleadingly labeled Ocean Breeze. "I don't see why it shouldn't work. We've run away so many times, it's become one of the most devastating magical attacks in our arsenal. And the amusement factor alone of seeing you repeatedly accosted by a giant chicken," he barked out another sneeze, and Cait Sith toddled over with the mop to clean up the resulting mess. "What? Oh, yes. As I was saying, it almost makes our constant cowardice bearable." He pawed at his muzzle, and snapped at Barret, "Do you mind?"

Barret shook the aerosol can, then tossed it over the edge, shrugging philosophically. "Don't matter. It's already empty." He sniffed the air, then snorted. "Still smells funky, though. And, see, I think you're all missin' something." He jabbed a finger at his teammates for emphasis. "As long as we keep fightin' the mutated bastard, Meteor ain't gonna fall, and the world stays safe."

Now, Sephiroth knew that his parents hadn't been married; not when he'd been born, and most certainly not when he'd been conceived in the shallow glass petri dish that Hojo had later had bronzed and mounted on the wall behind his desk along with his first set of baby shoes, and the skull of the first man he'd dismembered -- a lab assistant named Larry if the bronzed ID card was anything to go by. But bastard, especially the way the big, one-handed, mountain of a man was snarling it, seemed a bit derogatory, and it was on the tip of his tongue to protest -- with extreme prejudice and a few Pale Riders -- when the rest of the statement caught up with his meandering thoughts.

"What's this, Meteor isn't going to fall? Of course it is! See?" He held out his heavily scribbled upon Loveless calendar. "There it is, circled and underlined and everything. Meteor slams into Midgar, tens of thousands die, I become even more god-like than I already am -- if such a thing is even possible -- then, if the afternoon's free, I'm scheduled to defend my dissertation on the agrarian habits of semi-migratory cactuars." He closed the calendar tenderly, and returned it from whence it came; Hojo had always claimed it was a pocket in subspace, but the uncertainty made him a bit queasy whenever he put anything away. "I don't see what our battle has to do with it."

Cid had reclaimed his mop from Cait Sith, and was using it to practice deathblows against dust bunnies they'd missed during their cleaning spree. "Nah, he ain't dickin' with you. You summoned Meteor, and the Shinra muckity mucks predicted a few days before it hit. We wander around in the jungles near Mideel for _weeks_, and nothing happens. We enter Rocket Town, and the damn thing jumps closer, then stalls out once we leave." He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, then waved it around, the smoke blending with the already nauseating miasma of annihilated choir and Disinfectant. "As long as we're stuck in here with you, reliving the same frickin' battle over and over, damn thing ain't never coming down. Hell, I don't know why we bothered confronting you to begin with. Ain't like you can leave the Crater."

"Wasn't my idea." Cloud, braiding together the strands of hair he'd yanked from Sephiroth's head, was still occasionally glancing upwards, torn between being a properly gullible puppet, and his firm belief that Holy was just beyond arm's reach. "There's a reason I told you all to mosey. Seph…" He pulled out his earring, and tied it to the end of the silvery string he'd created. "Are you sure it's just lamps? What do you do when a bulb burns out?"

"I hover out over the abyss and change it." He waggled a wing as proof, then winced as Nanaki stealthily pounced and pulled out a feather. "Hey!" He tried dodging, but the dog/cat was quicker; Nanaki somersaulted backwards with a mouthful of feathers. "Quit it! I need those to fly, and replace burned out halogen light bulbs."

"I need them more," Red XIII said, spitting out feathers and grinning a fangy, good-humored grin. "My old feathers were getting bedraggled; these will make excellent new decorations for my mane. War trophies; Grandpa would be proud of me. I have upheld the honor of my family."

Sephiroth had his doubts; there wasn't anything particularly heroic about harassing an enemy that wasn't capable of properly fighting back -- damn the eternal pause, anyway -- and Bugenhagen, a crackpot so disturbed and fringe-elemental that not even Shinra had been willing to hire him, would have more likely been apathetic, at best, to his grandson's taste in haute couture, having lectured numerous times during his life that feathers belonged on avians, not vain denizens of Cosmo Canyon.

"So, what do we do now?" Yuffie whined, trying without success to bounce her lopsided, gnawed-upon Superball. "Anybody up for some Triple Triad?"

Cloud, leaning out over the edge, lowered his braided, grey string into the vast glowing nothingness below, and shook his head. "Nah. I thought I'd try catching us something for dinner, since the last of our Whatchamacallits are missing."

Whistling innocently and hiding the empty wrappers in clenched tentacles, Sephiroth floated over to his puppet's side, and stared down with him into the swirling depths. "What do you expect to catch? There's nothing down there but Lifestream, and the soul of the planet."

"WHAT?" From some distance away, Barret, who'd also snuck over to the edge, hastily stuffed himself back into his pants. "Oh man, oh man, I just pissed on the planet. Damn you, Sephiroth; if you're so all powerful, why the hell don't you have any toilets down here?" He held his arms out in front of him, and began wailing. "How will this dirty hand ever be able to hold Marlene again?"

Sephiroth, while great, and unquestionably strong in will and mind and body, found himself shuddering with each sob coming from Barret, lamenting the lack of a proper sink and anti-bacterial soap. He had to do something, anything, to get the big guy quiet and back into his happy place. And he had to do it quickly.

"Cloud! Make us some ham and swiss sandwiches!"

Cloud reeled in his jury-rigged fishing line, and gave him a look that promised heinous punishment when he was least expecting it, like serving him Oreo cookies without any milk next time he was getting ready to tuck his General into bed. "_What_ was that?"

"Umm…" He was great, and he wasn't the least bit afraid of his puppet -- no, not at all -- but he was also wise, and knew when compromise was in order. "Cloud, wanna come help me make sandwiches?" And he would compromise, and would even bring out the honey-mustard, although he was drawing the line at using fine linen napkins. Unless his puppet decided to serve lunch on the good china.

Then, he wouldn't have much choice at all. Because cookies weren't any fun at all, without milk.


	4. the nosh interlude

_**Disclaimer:** Not gonna, can't make me._

_**Warnings:** Not gonna, can't make me. 'Cept, this ain't nuthin' but a free meal._

_**Notes:** Reno is pretty. I mean, I always _knew_ he was pretty, but now he's, like, über-pretty. Pretty to the power of yum. Drool on the keyboard from the AC trailers, drool from the BC site… and how Cloud and Seph and Zack work into that, I really wanna know. And none of this has anything t' do with the interlude. I just thought I'd give ya a head's up over my state of mind. Which is stuck in the absolute prettiness that is Reno. Pretty, pretty Reno._

**Ad Nauseam**  
this is not the chapter you are looking for

There was no ham. There should have been; he distinctly remembered taking it out of the freezer to thaw -- not on the counter, since he had no counter upon which to thaw it -- nor in the fridge, since he was likewise lacking that most common of conveniences in his dreary cavern prison. That he had a freezer was more a matter of opinion, since anything left out unattended froze in short order, a not uncommon side effect when one took into account that he lived on the bottommost level in a subterranean maze smack dab in the middle of the glaciated northernmost continent. But he _had_ had ham. Of that he was sure; Jenova had brought it home with the rest of the groceries -- milk, and eggs, and bratwurst -- the last time she'd gone out shopping and Cloud-baiting.

He'd ask his Mother where it was, if only she weren't so many oozy little moieties at the moment. The condition was transitory, but she could be _such_ a bitch while trying to piece herself back together that he didn't feel it worth the bother of ascending his crumbling yet still fashionably functional spiral staircase to ask her about his missing lunchmeat.

Now sandwiches were out of the question, unless he wanted to make peanut butter and jelly on sourdough, but the peanut butter always stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he wanted to give Avalanche as little ammunition as possible to harass him with; he'd gotten enough lisping mockery from Zack during the war. There was always spaghetti -- but that presented its own hazards, for no matter how fastidious he tried to be, he always ended up with a smear of marinara across his chin, which would rather defeat his main objective: Getting through a meal without his sadistic foes laughing heartily at his expense.

So he settled on meatloaf, because _everyone_ expected meatloaf to be terrible and chock-full of mystery meat. And while he had no refrigerator, nor any counters, he did have a handy-dandy self-cleaning, self-regulating, self-aware oven he fondly called Feedo. He set his puppet to chopping onions, and bell peppers, and mushrooms, and olives, because vegetables were an important part of every meal, and damned if he was giving Avalanche the chance to criticize his AA in home economics. And he brought out his oatmeal, and a few eggs, and the last of his milk -- after sniffing the top, for the expiration had passed a few days previously.

And into the mystery meat he mixed in ketchup, and catsup, and mustard, and BBQ sauce, and seasoning salt, and garlic salt, and a dash of this and that which Hojo had always sworn would grow hair on the most contrary of chests; yet another one of the scientist's many failures, for Sephiroth had yet to see the smallest hair sprout from anywhere other than the top of his head.

Cloud had some difficulty chopping up the vegetables, but that could have been attributed to his insistence on using the jagged edge of Apocalypse; Cloud swore that the triple growth slots on the blade could only be beneficial to the vitamins and minerals contained within the fresh produce. And Cloud may have been on to something, for by the time he was done slicing and dicing and making pretty little radish roses, the pile glowed a positively healthy green, and was chanting Vegan slogans to itself.

Sephiroth mixed it all together into a meatloaf of epic proportions, and he dumped it from the bowl into a roasting pan and nudged it and slapped it until it vaguely resembled an Adamantaimai. Then he kindly asked Feedo to open its maw, and he stuffed the meatloaf in before it could crawl out of the pan and start demanding compensation for its pain and suffering.

He was great, and he was feared on all the major landmasses, and quite a few of the smaller ones, but even he was respectful of the skills of the howling main course. Once it solidified during the baking process, it might even be able to wield a dinner knife; if such an incident were to occur, he'd shove it in the bar maid's direction, and let them battle it out, and the winner could dine upon the loser. It seemed only fair.

The timer was set -- kindly donated by Cid, who'd confiscated it from the railroad, which had never been able to keep its trains on schedule -- and the minutes passed by slowly, while his enemies played a variety of card games and party games. And when Vincent, having chosen dare over truth, came over and smooched him dryly on his cheek, he bore it with amazing fortitude, and only Dein'd the crimson-cloaked man twice. Because no one stole _anything_ from the great General, not even a kiss -- but if someone _was_ going to steal a kiss, there were lots worse folks than Vincent around to do it.

Vincent was lucky; Cait Sith, upon whom had fallen the dare of kissing Cloud, was treated to a Shadow Flare and an upgraded Doom, followed by a series of tentacle slaps which left the cat reeling dizzily, and the mog with a small tear from which stuffing was fluffily peeking out.

Cloud, as oblivious as ever, washed and cut several stalks of broccoli into bite-sized florets. Or, perhaps his puppet wasn't as oblivious as he'd first feared, as Sephiroth watched Cloud repeatedly whack the whimpering mog/cat with each backswing of his sword, while bits of flayed greenery flew through the air.

There was broccoli to steam, and a delicate cheese sauce that needed built, and he wondered if he should go through the trouble of making crescent rolls, or if the starch course of the meal should be a potato dish instead. But then he reminded himself that he didn't _like_ any of the people he was fixing dinner for; that, in fact, they'd already pulverized him on numerous occasions, and had given every indication that once they were unpaused, they'd continue their campaign of abuse.

Yet if Jenova had taught him anything -- besides the virtue of homicidal rage, and the need for an annoying villainous laugh -- it was that there were few things better in the world than a good host. Of course, being a virus could have certainly skewed her opinion away from total objectivity. But Mother's advice had come in useful in the past, so he decided a pan of brownies wouldn't be amiss as dessert after an uninspired meal.

He was great, and multi-talented, and had been awarded several certificates of achievement by the Turks for his treatise on multi-tasking. Along with his puppet -- now protected by an apron emblazoned with the warning "Kiss the Cook's Minion and Die!" -- he baked, and steamed, and flambéed, and set the slab of rock doubling as his dining room table with the good china and the linen napkins that Yuffie enterprisingly turned into cloth Tonberies courtesy of her finely-honed origami skills.

And together they sat down, and enjoyed a meal of slightly scorched meatloaf -- which only put up the smallest of fusses when first cut into -- and mushy broccoli in coagulated cheese sauce, and stale sourdough bread liberally smeared with butter only marginally rancid. Salt and pepper were passed from hand to hand, the shakers shaped into remarkable facsimiles of key Shinra personnel, and apricot jam was scooped from subdued Magic Pots, and all in all, dinner was a rousing success.

Then Sephiroth served the brownies, à la mode, because ice cream was one of the few dietary staples that kept well in the cavern's frigid environs. And while Avalanche finished eating, he ordered his puppet to clear the table -- then asked sweetly, with the point of Apocalypse hovering far too close to his throat, if his puppet could help him clear the table, since the good china needed to be washed before mystery meat crumbles started dissolving holes through the plates.

Cloud washed the dishes -- not speculating on the appearance of the hot-water filled basin, for he valued his somewhat shaky sanity, and had also experience Hojo's lectures on subspace -- while Sephiroth dried, and the rest of the group ate brownies and vanilla ice cream and discussed the remarkable healing qualities of honey roasted peanuts.

They ate, and Cloud scrubbed, and Sephiroth dried, and Tifa sat down her fork, and chewed her last mouthful, and swallowed, and laughed at the cozy scene of domesticity. "You know," she said, hands crossed daintily across her lap, "you brag on, and on, how evil you are. But, what's so _evil_ about drying dishes? Isn't that more along the lines of a good deed?"

Sephiroth sneered, and held up the platter he was working on. "Shows how much you know. See?" He tilted the platter, letting the light coming from the halogen lamps shine across its surface. "Streaks. Streaks on the plates, and the crystal glasses, and spots on the forks and knives."

Barret laughed, and licked a dribble of ice cream from his spoon. "Yeah, that's evil! Right up there with helping old ladies across the street, then leaving before they can tip you. Evil like," he gave a small burp, then looked down at his stomach, which had begun to grumble unhappily. "Evil like…" His stomach gurgled, and he poked at it hesitantly, then scowled. "Evil, evil like…"

"Evil like the laxative I laced the brownies with." His sneer twisted into a full-fledged maniacal leer. "Don't bother looking for your Digestive; I stole that before we sat down to eat. And as you've already had the chance to discover, my cavern is sadly lacking in the facilities you'll soon be needing. So you'd better trot yourselves back up to your save point; a simple escape spell from there will put you within running distance of your airship, which, really, is for the best, wouldn't you agree?"

He was talking to thin air, his enemies having already dashed out of his lair.

Cloud draped the washrag across the colander, and gave the General a Look hard to interpret. "You bask in your evilness, don't you?"

"Do I even need to answer that?" He was great, and he was the brilliant mind responsible for the strategies that had won Shinra the Wutai war, and he floated three feet in the air and performed his victory dance which included the flapping of his wing, and the clapping of his tentacles, and the brushing of his hair with the necessary 100 strokes to keep it shiny and soft.

It was a temporary respite, for he knew Avalanche would be back after their unscheduled visit to the little terrorists' room, but it gave him time to plot, and plan, and scoop him and his favorite failed clone dishes of ice cream smothered in hot fudge and liberally sprinkled with crushed honey roasted peanuts. Strictly for the health benefits, of course.

Both of them wisely skipped the brownie. Likewise for the health benefits.

.oO0Oo.  
the chapter you're seeking  
will one day appear  
when least you're expecting  
rightly you should fear  
.oO0Oo.

I am so up to Advent Children speculation. The WCM? Palmer. Really. Reeve finally talked him into going on a diet, and ever since that semi hit him, he's been having trouble wheeling himself over to the lard bucket. Would I lie?

Well, yes. But I'll smile sweetly atcha while I do it.


	5. mailbag day

_**Disclaimer:** Wise man say, The World is Square. Wise Esse say, no fricken' kidding! Wise ass say, like you really need a disclaimer this far into the story? Who the hell reads these stupid things, anyway?_

_**Warnings:** Pretty sure this one's clean, folks. Er, except for the above._

_**Notes:** Esse has heroically denied the urge to download AC. Esse is waiting patiently for the US release. Esse thinks having such strict values sucks big time. I _need_ the prettiness that is Reno! Don't mind me sobbing in my corner._

_**Yowzers:** FFnet will, like, let me respond to reviews. Neat-o. You've got questions? I've got babble. Righteous! —Warned ya, that it'd be a while before I updated. This fic, it's a January thing._

**Ad Nauseam  
**M is for the Madness that she gave me

_"Red Riding Hoodlum filled his pockets with ammunition until he could carry no more, and then he remembered his grandfather again."_

Snuggling deeper into his afghan, Sephiroth yawned behind a tentacle and blinked drowsily at his puppet. He was great, and he was terrible to behold in his fury, but it was also far past the hour all good little Generals retired to their beds — and fury was hard to maintain with his darling stuffed Kujata cradled in his arms. Not that he _couldn't_ fly into an awe-inspiring rage at a moment's notice — if it were needed — though awesomeness would prove difficult to achieve with his hair done up in paisley rag curls and his tentacles tipped with pink mittens. He _could_ be ranting and laughing maniacally, but it was late, and his blue blankie was fuzzy and warm, and his puppet was reading him a bedtime story. Tomorrow, he'd be terrible to behold in his fury; tonight, he'd be dowdy in his domesticity.

_"'Oh grandfather, what big ears you have,' he said."_

Cloud's voice was pleasant when he wasn't threatening him, or whining at him, or singing the chorus of his theme under his breath. A man could do worse in his choice of minion, he mused, conveniently ignoring the fact that it was Hojo that had done the choosing.

_"'The better to listen to Blue Öyster Cult with, my dear.'"_

A doorbell rang, filling the non-space with the clarion tones of _The Reaper_. "How peculiar," Sephiroth said, mildly annoyed with having story time interrupted. "I don't recall having a doorbell."

"Hmm," Cloud hmm'd noncommittally, as opposed to his umm, signifying his desire to stay _uncommitted_ — or his ahm, warning to the wise that he was _totally_ committed — or even his erm, which tended to slip out when he was doodling in his Mog's Garden coloring book instead of listening to vital strategy during important Avalanche brouhahas. _"'Oh grandfather, what a big…'"_ he paused, rereading the line, trying to remember if dongs had ever figured prominently in the fairy tales his mother used to make him read by himself whenever she went out to bet on the chocobo races. "Umm," he stalled, checking the cover of the book; it matched his admittedly fuzzy childhood memories, gold-stamped letters spelling out Grimm's Tales for Fairies. "Gah…"

Loud knocking saved Cloud from having to finish the story.

"How odd," Sephiroth said, having pulled out his pocket thesaurus, for he was brilliant, and he was suavely glib — when he was given the time to write his speeches out beforehand — and he absolutely _hated_ repeating himself, which _did_ tend to happen whenever he left his pocket thesaurus behind in the Soldier locker room after impaling practice. Zack had been regularly sending him Planet-grams mocking his egocentric Bwahaha! Zack, being dead, didn't get out much, and had little to amuse him. Sephiroth, being nearly omniscient, had ordered a dozen extra thesauri from Amazon, along with an electronic dictionary which came in handy whenever he had to look up the plural for thesaurus. The herd of thesauri were currently lounging at the far side of the cavern, snacking on synonyms and irregular verb forms.

The knocking continued, louder, scattering the thesauri and necessitating another look into his pocket thesaurus. "How queer…" One silvery eyebrow rose, and he shook his ribboned head. "No, I don't **_think_** so. Too shibboleth." A flip of a page, and he tried again. "How astounding. No. How prodigious. Yuck. How bizarre." He pursed his lips, then smiled his demented yet outstandingly sexy smile. "Yes, how bizarre. Someone is knocking at my door, and yet I have no door to knock upon. Bwahaha!" He winced, his smile slipping. "I can't believe I did that. Cloud, be a good little puppet and see who it is _not_ knocking upon my door."

Cloud, who'd stolen his blankie and fallen asleep while he was perusing his reference library, had to be slapped awake. Then, after a brief tug-o-war for possession of the darling stuffed Kujata, Cloud grumbling went to answer the knocking — darling stuffed Kujata dangling from his hand, leaving Sephiroth to inspect the foot-long pinions now separated from his wing, and speculate on not only _how_ his minion had managed to draw his Yoshiyuki so quickly, but _where_ he had drawn it from, seeing as how the pocket in subspace was currently closed to all but current residents — and even they'd only be let in after showing proper identification.

"Who was it?" he grumbled, for he was now wide awake, and Kujata-less, and more than willing to start in on the awesome fury.

In abject fear, Cloud moseyed back — as fast as a mosey-ing man could mosey, which falls somewhere in between casually strolling and skipping to the lua. "Run, hide!" he shrieked, much as he had shrieked when given Muki's underwear. "It's horrible. It's terrible. It's mosey-ing right behind me!" He dove behind Sephiroth, and pulled the blue blankie over his head. "Kill it, kill it!"

**It** was a two-inch-tall, hopping, hot-glued-together Jenova. "…reunion?..." she squeaked, and hopped, and involved herself in a life-or-death battle against a dust bunny before resuming her hopping and squeaking. "…reunion reunion…"

"Mother." Sephiroth was less than pleased, which logically left him rather neutral with a craving for Funions, about the alien's reappearance. "I see you've managed to pull yourself back together. Did you happen to bring the mail with you?"

"…reunion…" she said/squeaked sadly. "…reunion…puppet…bwahaha…"

"No, Cloud's _my_ puppet, Mother. Mine. If you're so hot for Reunion, go after Hojo."

Jenova grimaced with as much disgust as a two-inch-tall pieced-together alien virus could display, which, considering that she was already pretty disgusting, said a lot about her opinion of merging with Hojo. "…reunion…" she denied with a shiver that shook off the tip of her nose.

"I'm glad we agree." Sephiroth was powerful, and Sephiroth was single (except for his sometimes loyal, sometimes exasperating, and at all times fun to tease minion, who didn't count, because, duh, who counts minions?), and Sephiroth really was too old to be living with his mommy. "Now could you _go_, Mother? Don't you have that dead flower girl to harass?"

"…reunion…"

There was a soft, squishy-splat type noise which was Cloud smooshing Jenova with a fly swatter.

"…reunion!..."

"You can't kill her, you know," Sephiroth said, snatching up the fly swatter. "Don't you think I've tried? Just when you think you've disposed of the last of her, she shows back up, possessing a gerbil, or some such." He smacked his mother half a dozen times as proof. "See? She's worse than a Timex."

"…ohh reunion…"

"Hello? Hel—loooo?" Cait Sith bumbled his way down, tripping over rocks and stray strands of Lifestream and itty-bits of Jenova. "There you are!"

Sephiroth tried swatting the mog/cat, to no avail. "Didn't I overdose you on laxatives?"

"Oh, silly me," the cat shrugged, rolling his eyes and waving his Starlight Phone. "I just got caught up in the rush; I forgot I hadn't eaten any of the brownie. Because I'm stuffed, you know?" The mog bounced, and the cat cheered, and the General thought about toasting the both of them with Flare for the pun. "Want me to tell you your fortune?" Cait asked, rocking back and forth.

"I _know_ my fortune," Sephiroth hissed; quite an accomplishment, for a sentence that had no sibilants. "I'm going to win, and rule the Planet, and demand that Scarlet throw away all her crotch-less panties!"

"Ugh, I'm gonna be sick," Cloud moaned, clutching his stomach; whether his nausea stemmed from the mention of Scarlet, or the scatterings of Jenova slowly crawling back together, or from the piece of brownie he couldn't stop himself from nibbling earlier was hard to tell.

"No you're not!" Sephiroth commanded.

"No I'm not," Cloud repeated mindlessly; he then snapped out of the trance, and stomped his foot angrily. "I hate it when you do that." Yoshiyuki made another appearance, and signed autographs, but couldn't get near enough to Sephiroth to clip his feathers because there was now another party member in the cavern, weakening the blade. Yoshiyuki disappeared quickly.

"Well, hate to burst your bubble," Cait Sith said in fake solicitousness, "but my predictions are never wrong, and it says right here," the cat pointed to the mog's belly, and the ticker tape gruesomely sticking out, "that your lucky number is 69, your blood-type shows traces of Klingon DNA, and Hut-Sut Rawlson on the rillerah and a brawla, brawla sooit. So there!"

"Reeve, have you been drinking again?" Cloud prodded the mog/cat, who giggled, and jiggled, and cut out paper dollies from the fortune.

"We've tried contacting him on the PHS, but he's not answering," Red XIII said, padding in a dignified fashion across the rock floor, after falling in a far from dignified fashion down the staircase.

"Didn't I poison you?" Sephiroth asked the dog/cat, while using a mittened tentacle to flick a bit of his Mother off the side of the rocky platform to the bright haziness below.

"Chocolate should never be given to a cat, or a dog," Nanaki answered smugly. "I knew better than to eat it."

"Then why did you run off?"

If a cat/dog could blush, Red would be doing so, but since a cat/dog _can't_ blush, he had to settle for a hastily written sign which read 'Plëz kØnsiðr më ßlµshing.' In his defense, he had no thumbs, and his education from Bugenhagen had consisted mostly of tirades against Shinra's retirement system and hardly at all of lessons in spelling. "Tifa's legs looked like chocobo drumsticks. I got excited…"

"…reunion…" Jenova chirped in agreement, making her way back over the edge — for she could fly and could not fall, and wanted to make sure no one forgot about her, even for a minute, even though they _really_ wanted to.

"Hmm." Cloud toyed with his spikes, and fiddled with his earring, and pictured in his mind Tifa strutting about warking like a chocobo. "Ermm… There's enough of us here to play Bridge. Any of you want to play Bridge? Hearts? Spades?"

"No thumbs," Nanaki sat pretty, and held out his paws as proof, while Jenova searched the floor carefully, complaining, "…no…reunion!…hands…"

"But we need four players." And Cloud truly, desperately needed something to take his mind off of chocobo-Tifa, running through the fields and streams and responding to the Chocobo Lure of lonely, horny backwoods' men.

"Wait for it." He was great, and he was wise, and while he didn't particularly want to sit around playing cards with his worst enemies — well, not _worst_ enemies, or even _next to worst_ enemies, more like acquaintances that had over stayed their welcome, because he barely knew most of them, except Cloud, who was sorta like a _best_ enemy — it was better than listening to his Mother natter on about her little dispute with the Cetra.

Vincent showed up right on schedule.

"Weren't you yadda yadda yadda," Sephiroth made a twirling motion with his finger, then returned to stacking the deck of cards in his favor. He played, after all, to win.

"If people are to maintain their cherished misconception that I am a vampire, they can not see me eat," Vincent intoned cryptically, sweeping his cape dramatically, and tightening the loose screws in his mechanical arm fussily.

"Then why…?"

"I'd forgotten to record Fear Factor. I didn't want to miss Heidegger tightrope walking across Cosmo Canyon."

"Did he make it?" Nanaki asked, fearing for the safety of the people he was duty-bound to protect as per clause 17-a of the Seto Agreement.

"To the ground?" Vincent grinned a fangy, satisfied grin. "He made — quite a splash. It will take weeks of purification before they attempt relighting Cosmo Candle."

The various eews and grodies were drowned out by the opening chords of _The Reaper_. "For My sake," Sephiroth floated to the foot of the unstable staircase, "I do not have a doorbell, for I do not have a _door_ to answer, and the next time I hear it, I shall find the culprit and flay the flesh from his writhing bones—"

One of the few surviving singers from the choir eeped and fled from his xylophone, leaving behind a burdened postal worker.

"Sign here," the woman said, holding out her clipboard.

"Certainly." He scrawled out his name with a flourish practiced numerous times on requisition forms citing the need for additional bootlaces, for Zack had continually tied his together in knots of incomparable complexity, consistently making him late for roll call.

She handed him a large envelope, then left — somewhere, for neither Meteor nor Holy nor chihuahuas nor pause of game could stop the courier from the swift completion of her duties, and the even swifter journey to the closest bar where she hoped for a sordid assignation with the soused Reeve.

"Interesting." Sephiroth was mighty, and a marvel to behold when wielding Masamune — but he looked a bit silly using the blade as an oversized letter-opener, although that, too, was a marvel to behold. "Did you know it's national mako awareness month?" He pointed at the cancellation stamp. "It's from the here-after. I hope it's not another missive from Gast; like I _care_ that he considers me an abomination of science…"

The cavern was silent as something pink fluttered out of the envelope, to drift slowly to the ground.

"I'll be damned," Sephiroth said, stepping back.

"Probably," Vincent agreed, still smiling that very deranged, disturbing smirk. "And your soul shall be mine!"

"That's it, Mister." Cloud marched forward, and pulled the fake fangs from Vincent's mouth. "No more Hot Topic for you." Tossing the vampire teeth away, he peered down to take a better look at the fallen contents of the envelope. "Hmm. It looks like," he tilted his head one way, then the other, working out the muscle cramp he'd gotten from peering down, "well, it looks like Aerith. Only flat."

"There's also a note." Sephiroth tapped the end of the envelope, catching the piece of pink, posy-scented paper with two tentacles. "What do you know? She did manage to mail herself from the afterlife. The only way she could afford postage was to leave the realism of 3-D for old-school 2-D spritehood. She asks that we re-inflate her…"

"…reunion…"

"I don't have any lips."

Vincent, sulking over the cruel dissipation of his carefully constructed mystique, said nothing at all, but that wasn't unusual; it was his whimpering and cowering in revulsion that was out of character.

Cait Sith glanced at the caped man hiding behind him, then shrugged — both sets of shoulders. "I'd like to help, but I don't actually breathe."

"Aerith, you've returned! I knew you could be resurrected!" Cloud dropped to his knees in front of the flattened flower girl, and chapsticked his lips. "I'll save you!" His heroic act was interrupted by Sephiroth, who picked him up by the collar of his purple turtleneck and rattled him. "Lemme down; I've gotta save Aerith!"

Keeping a firm grasp on his puppet — though whose puppet he actually was at the moment was debatable — Sephiroth shook his head, causing his paisley ribbons to bounce merrily. "You, cat/dog. I'm sure I saw a bicycle pump around here somewhere. Fetch it."

"Arf arf," Nanaki said drolly, twitching his tail and not making the slightest attempt to stand. "It's behind you, Your Cluelessness."

"Hmph." Sephiroth retrieved the pump, and slowly inflated the flower girl, stopping for breakfast, a potty break, and a Gilligan's Island marathon. And Aerith slowly went from 2-D to 3-D, and then a bit beyond 3-D into 32-DD and in desperate need of Tifa's suspenders until the General of Shinra (and occasionally General of a small tribe of Jumpings that called Ice Gate home) relented, and released a bit of air.

"Aerith," Cloud whispered reverently, forestalled from kneeling by the tentacle wrapped around his waist. "You came back."

Patting herself — and quite happy being 32-C — Aerith twirled around, and grabbed the hose of the bicycle pump, unplugging it with relief. "There now," she said, her voice the chiming of little bells rung by angels high on opium. Cloud?" she asked, and flowers bloomed, and robins sang, and mako futures dropped below 50 gil a barrel.

"Yes Aerith?"

"Would you…?

"Yes?"

"Mind telling me," she screeched, grabbing hold of his ear and giving it a good yank, "_what_ exactly you were doing with Tifa the night before you entered the crater?"

Startled, Sephiroth dropped his precious puppet into the angry pink claws of the enraged flower girl. "She came back from the dead for that?"

"…good…of reason…as any…" Jenova said/squeaked, patiently waiting for her hot glue gun to heat. "…reunion!..."

.oO0Oo.  
_All our times have come  
Here but now they're gone  
Seasons don't fear the reaper  
_.oO0Oo.

Now imagine it on a xylophone. Bwahaha! Blue Öyster Cult all the way. And… those aren't lyrics. Nope. Nuh-uh. They just _look_ like lyrics. Yeah. That's it. Call off the gestapo, FFnet, you're scaring us clinically depressed, middle-aged recluses.


End file.
